


believer

by petiterosebud



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Blood Kink, F/M, Masturbation, Michael gets cookies and a bath, Minor Injuries, Mutual Masturbation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petiterosebud/pseuds/petiterosebud
Summary: He gives you one last look, as if he were reaching out and grazing your soul with his fingertips. And then he turns around. You release the breath you were holding, eyes fluttering. His hold on you gone.Reader is Madelyn's granddaughter and meets Michael outside the satanic congregation.





	1. Chapter 1

You were late. You take a deep breath and continue power walking down the street, looking out for the inverted cross your grandmother had told you to follow.

It’s your first time attending a satanic congregation and in a bid to make a good…or bad(?) impression, you had baked some cookies. The Tupperware box is tucked under your arm, the baked goods jumbling around as you speed up.

Luckily it isn’t long before you find the alley. You can hear the sound of a man talking which makes you pause and slow your steps, unsure if you should continue.

Carefully you approach, watching a blonde man shrug to the guard.

You don’t know where this moment of bravery comes from but your voice breaks the silence, “Am I late?”

Both men turn to you, the man at the door snorts, “Are you lost too?”

You shake your head, “I don’t think so, my gran, Madelyn, told me to come here.”

You glance at the blonde man, he’s absolutely disheveled. His hair a mess, clothes torn in places and caked in dirt. You look upon him with sympathy. He barely spares you a look. His exhaustion obvious.

The guard nods, opening the door.

You wait for the blonde to walk through first, wanting to be polite, yet he did not move.

“Um..,” you gesture to the door, “please, you go first.”

He looks upon you then, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“It’s only fair, you got here first,” you shrug.

Finally he breaks the silence, “If there’s one thing the women in my life have taught me, it’s to have manners,”

You weren’t expecting this deep, honey voice, or the butterflies you feel at it.

He gestures to the door, “Come on.”

“Thank you,” you walk around him, “thank you too,” to the guard holding the door open.

You can hear the blonde limping as he follows you, making you stop to turn to him, “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

He doesn’t say anything, only stares at you, a look of uncertainty.

“Do you?” Pointedly looking at his legs.

He looks away from you.

Slowly you approach him, reaching for his arm. He doesn’t pull away so you continue until it’s wrapped around your shoulder.

He gives in and leans onto you as you both walk, “Thank you,” he murmurs into your ear.

You smile softly. The butterflies increasing.


	2. Chapter 2

You find your gran seated near the back, and quickly you lead the man to the same pew as her. 

He sits down slowly and carefully, still holding on, and you gently release your hold on him once he’s seated. You can’t help but note how cold you feel now you’re no longer touching him.

Quickly you seat yourself beside him, looking towards your gran who doesn’t look happy with you. 

“You’re late,” she mutters. 

“I know, I’m sorry, got caught up with something.”

“More like someone,” suggestiveness full in her voice, a smirk on her mouth.

“Gran!” you hiss, glancing at the man. Luckily his attention is elsewhere; the high priestess. Dressed all in a theatrical red, a pentagram embroidered on her chest as she performs her service, “I need more sins,” her voice echoes into the room, “I need to feel we’re making way for him.”

She begins questioning the audience, what are their sins and how they’re helping bring forth the end times, but with each answer the woman gets more and more frustrated. 

“You wanna know what I did this week?” She gestures to everyone, arms wide, “You wanna be inspired? You wanna know how I’m helping bring end times? I robbed a nursing home,” You scoff quietly, earning a reprimanding look from your gran, “And then I gave all the money to the N.R.A.” 

You see movement out the corner of your eye and find the man beside you with his head in his hand as though he’s completely given up on humanity. 

The high priestess continues with her speech, trying to rouse the audience, “I need to be inspired!” She practically shouts. 

You feel something poke into your arm and you turn to find your gran handing you the collection basket. You quickly check for some cash in your pockets, managing to fish out $5. You go to hand the basket to the man beside you and just as you realise that’s not the best idea, and begin to turn away, he turns to look at you, then to the basket.

“I don’t have any money right now,” his voice weak and broken. 

As you go to reply your gran’s voice speaks out beside you, “Or any food from the looks of it.” She takes the basket from you and passes it on. 

“How long’s it been since you ate, kid?” Her voice gentle and sympathetic. 

You watch as he rests his head on his arm and he sighs, “What’s it to you?” You raise your eyebrows at the tone of his voice. 

“Just trying to help out a fellow believer,” She pauses, “You know after this service, I can fix you something, my place is only a couple blocks from here.” 

You smile at the offer, looking towards him and you find him close to tears at her kindness. You feel your heart break for him. 

He sniffles, “That’s actually really nice of you.”

Your gran shrugs and smiles, “What can I say, nobody’s perfect.” 

You let out a soft laugh, “You’re right about that,” glancing at her to find her rolling her eyes at you.


	3. Chapter 3

The service comes to an end not long after.

“I’m gonna stay behind, get to know some of the others,” you tell your gran.

“Handing out cookies is cheating, you know?” she points to your tupperware box, “They won’t have a choice but to like you with those.”

You laugh, “I don’t think a cookie will have that much of an effect.”

She hums in reply “Sure.”

You stand, taking the box with you, then a thought pops into your head, you turn towards the blonde, “Would you like one?” You open the lid and hold it out to him. He looks up at you, eyes wide, and then to the cookies. Slowly he reaches a hand into the box and takes one. He almost seems to analyse it before he takes a bite. You can’t help but watch him carefully for a reaction. And then he groans, eyes practically rolling back.

“Good?” You grin.

He hums in agreement as he chews.

Your gran interjects, “Come on, let’s get some real food in you,” She brushes a hand over his shoulder.

He stands and goes to follow her but stops and turns to you, holding the cookie up he flashes you the first smile you think you’ve seen from him. With his voice low, and a twinkle in his eyes, he says, “These are truly sinful.” Then he walks away, eating the rest of it, catching up with your gran.

Your eyes follow him as he leaves and once he’s gone from your sight it seems the spell is broken.

* * *

 

You don’t stay for long after, making small talk with the other believers, how they came to find themselves there, whilst handing out your baked goods. They seem to go down well if the smiles and hums of pleasure are anything to go by.

You leave happy and content making your way to your gran’s house.

Until you walk in on her shouting.

Panic seizes you, you drop the plastic box in your hands, and rush into the dining room only to find your gran holding a large knife to the man’s throat, the other hand tight in his hair.

You go to speak out, but the man just calmly raises his hand at you, still staring up at your gran. This makes you pause, eyes flickering between them both, and then he speaks, “Well, before you kill me, dear believer…see me.”

You watch as she pulls the hair back from behind one of his ears and then she drops the knife as if in shock, “Hail Satan,” she exclaims falling to her knees.

You feel completely lost at the situation, not sure how to approach this at all.

You force yourself to move and slowly you walk over, retrieving the knife from the floor, then you feel a hand clasp at your wrist. You turn to see the man staring at you, then to the knife in your hand. Calmly you explain, “I’m just putting it away.” He takes a deep breath and loosens his hold, his fingertips running across your wrist softly as he pulls away.

You return the knife to the kitchen and once alone you find yourself shaking, the adrenaline wearing off. You take deep breaths, hands gripping the edge of the worktop. Eventually you’re able to breathe normally, and you force yourself to return to the room.

You find him still seated, his head in one of his hands as if he’s bored, his gaze on the table’s surface. Your gran is still on her knees on the floor, eyes closed and whispering to herself lost in a prayer. You approach him slowly and place a hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of his trance. He looks up at you in expectation. At his gaze, your mind blanks. Then you say the first thing that pops into your head, “Bath?” You roll your eyes at yourself for not being able to string a full sentence together.

You start again, “Would you like one? A bath I mean..um…” And you realise you still don’t know his name.

“Michael,” he murmurs.

“Michael,” you find yourself repeating.

“Yes, I would like that,” He looks down at himself pointedly.

“Okay,” You begin to walk away but don’t hear him stand to follow. You turn around to find him watching you leave, “Come on,” and you continue your journey. You hear the chair scrape along the floor and his limping steps follow you.

You walk up the stairs slowly, allowing Michael a chance to catch up with you, “Do you need any help?”

He shakes his head this time, his hand gripping to the bannister as he pulls himself up the steps carefully. You nod and continue.

Once you reach the bathroom the first thing you do is close the lid on the toilet, “Sit here,” you order him. He doesn’t argue and seats himself. You kneel onto the bath mat, turning the taps on, setting the plug in place. The sound of running water fills the silence. You lean over the bath tub, placing a hand into the water, checking the temperature.

You glance over to Michael who’s eyes are closed and resting, “Do you want any bubble bath?” Feeling slightly ridiculous asking him this.

He doesn’t open his eyes, only answers with a simple, “Yes, please.”

You opt for the lavender scented one you use after stressful days, or when you can’t sleep. You figure he needs some relaxing after whatever he’s been through. You mix it into the water making sure none has settled to the bottom of the tub. You hear him breathe deeply at the scent, making you smile softly.

You wait patiently for the tub to fill, checking the water every now and then, and glancing at Michael. You start to think he may have fallen asleep, but then his eyes open automatically once you turn the taps off. He watches you stand, and you point out where the shampoo and conditioner are. As you go to leave he grabs your wrist. Irritation flows through you. You pull your arm back, just as you go to reprimand him.

“Sorry,” He releases his grip, his arm going back to his side.

“You can’t keep doing that,” You state, rubbing your wrist with your hand.

He silently nods, but then he asks you something you weren’t expecting, “Will you stay?”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“I need help getting in,” he states matter of factly, “And out.”

You bite your lip in consideration, his eyes drop to them, then away quickly once you notice.

“Fine,” you sigh, “But no funny business.”

Now he looks confused but you don’t bother explaining.

You turn around away from him, arms crossed, waiting for him to undress. He seems to get the message and you hear the sound of fabric dropping to the floor.

He clears his throat once he’s done and you turn around holding your gaze upwards and away from his lower body. You step closer to the tub and hold your arm out for him. One of his hands latches onto your shoulder and with the other he holds onto your hand. He hisses as he steps into the bath, his grip tightening as he begins to lower himself.

“It’s not too hot, is it?” You find yourself asking.

He raises his eyebrows at that, a half smile on his face and you find yourself nervously laughing.

“It’s fine,” His voice low as he lays himself back, “Perfect actually.”

You smile and stand to leave, wanting to let him relax.

“Stay,” His voice stops you.

You can’t help the confusion that forms across your face.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had,” He pauses as though he’s trying to find the words, “Decent company.”

You realise then that he’s lonely. Silently you seat yourself on the bath mat next to the tub, in the opposite direction to him. You wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin upon them. You both sit there in silence as you analyse the tiles on the wall beside you. You turn to find him watching you. You look away feeling awkward at his stare, and then you hear him slide down the bath. You take a peek to find he’s under the water entirely, and you watch waiting for him to come back up.

Seconds, then minutes pass, and you find the agitation building within you until you find yourself jumping up and pulling his upper body out. Water splashes over the sides and onto you. Your hands move from under his arms to his face, pushing his soaking hair out of his eyes.

He coughs, his breaths deep and quick, and his eyes open to look at you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You shriek, worry turning into anger, holding his face between your hands.

“I was seeing how long I could hold my breath for,” He explains breathily, his eyes wide.

You feel like you could hit him, “Don’t do that again,” You growl.

He looks at you in shock, then nods, “Okay.”

“Good,” you sigh, sitting back down, pulling at your shirt in discomfort. The wetness of it now clings to you and you find yourself debating whether or not to take it off. You decide not to, and opt to suffer in silence.

You watch as Michael sits up and reaches for a shampoo bottle, reading the description on it carefully before clicking it open and pouring the contents onto his hands. He pours too much, you note in amusement, and he begins massaging it into his scalp. He stops after a while and places his hands into the bath water, washing away the shampoo.

You stand up and his eyes follow you as you walk to the cabinet beneath the sink to pull a jug out, “For your hair,” You explain to him, and you walk back over to bath tub, kneeling down beside it. You turn the taps back on filling the jug. Michael watches intrigued. You turn them off and dip a fingertip in to check the temperature, deeming it fine you face him, “May I?”

He nods and leans his head back. Carefully you pour the water onto his scalp, your other hand running through his hair, making sure to remove all traces of the shampoo. You feel your fingertips trace something, it feels like raised skin, a scar. You pull his hair back gently, water still pouring and you see it, 666, engraved behind his ear. You run your fingertips over it again softly, mesmerised.

“Are you afraid?” His voice breaking the silence. You quickly pull your hand away. He looks over his shoulder at you. You look back, eyes wide, waiting for whatever he’s going to do next.

He sighs, still waiting for an answer you realise.

“No,” You breathe out, placing the jug on the floor.

“You feel sorry for me.” He says in awe.

“I don’t know how I feel,” You shrug.

“Don’t lie to me,” He looks into your eyes then, as if he’s gazing into your soul.

You look away quickly and grab the conditioner, pouring some onto your hand, “Let’s finish this first, okay?”

Beginning to rub it into his scalp.

He lets out a deep breath, “Fine.”

And then he groans.

You can’t help but let out a little giggle and he flicks water at you.

“Hey, none of that,” You jokingly scold.

“Don’t laugh at me,” His voice childish.

You smile, “The sound you made was cute,” Deeply massaging the conditioner in now, “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

He doesn’t reply so you continue, “I’m just glad you’re enjoying yourself, you’ve been through a lot, right?"

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” He murmurs sadly.

“That’s okay,” You stop to refill the jug, “Lean back again.”

He closes his eyes as you pour the water over his hair, running your fingers through. You watch his face carefully. It’s relaxed, so innocent, almost angelic you can’t help but think. Unconsciously your hand moves from his hair to his cheek and you find yourself stroking his skin. Your other hand moves on its own, placing the empty jug into the bath water. He still doesn’t open his eyes. You continue, and your hand wanders to his lips, your thumb tracing them gently. His mouth opens slightly and you feel his tongue reach out and graze the skin of your thumb.

You inhale sharply.

He opens his eyes then.

You yank yourself back, in shock at yourself, “I’m sorry,” and you stand, “I’ll just get you a towel,” Quickly leaving the room.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches as you leave.


	4. Chapter 4

Your heart is racing, your breathing shallow and if you hadn’t had them before you’d think it was a panic attack. 

 

You lean yourself back up against the wall in the corridor, willing for you to calm down. You force your breathing to slow, taking longer and deeper breaths. Eventually you’re able to think a bit clearly. 

 

It wasn’t sexual you think, whatever that was. There was an innocent curiosity to him, as if he himself didn’t know what he was doing. And that thought calms you. 

 

You force yourself to move and collect a towel from the closet. 

 

You take another deep breath just as you reach the bathroom door, grounding yourself, before you enter. 

 

Slowly you open the door to find Michael messing around with the bubbles between his hands, squishing them down, and blowing them off his skin. You find yourself smiling at the sight before you. It’s the most relaxed he’s looked since you’ve met him. 

 

You feel bad for interrupting him, “Do you want to get out yet, or stay in a bit longer?”

 

He drops his hands into the water, washing the bubbles off, “Out, please,” He answers. 

 

You place the towel on the rack and lean down to hold out your palm. He grabs ahold of it, his wet hand clenching onto yours, and with his other he pushes himself up. He steps out the tub carefully, water dripping down his body to the mat.  

 

You quickly let go and grab ahold of the towel, wiping your damp hand on it, removing the sensation of his touch. You unravel the sheet, immediately covering his lower body from your view, passing it over to him. 

 

He takes it from you, but instead of wrapping it around his body like you expect, he begins drying his hair with it, exposing his body to you.

 

Okay, he definitely knows what he’s doing this little shit, you think. 

 

You get a glance of a small smirk on his face as you turn around quickly. 

 

 _Definitely_ a little shit. 

 

“Shaving cream and razors are in the cupboard,” you say leaving the room quickly, not giving him a chance to ask you to stay. 

 

You go to your room and pull the damp shirt off your body, cringing as it comes off. You throw it to the floor with a sigh and begin searching for something for Michael to wear. You manage to find a large shirt you wear on lazy days that might just fit him, and further back in the closet something pink catches your eyes. You pick the bundle of fabric up to find it’s a pair of hello kitty pajama bottoms. You remember buying these, not checking the size properly and they were too large to you. Eventually you forgot to return them and ended up keeping them shoved into the back of your wardrobe. 

 

You bite your lip in consideration. Would he be offended if you gave him these? They’re just clothes to wear to bed, you think. And these are the closest thing you’ve found that may actually fit him. 

 

You take a moment to think it over, changing into a vest and loose plaid shorts, finally feeling a bit more comfortable, no longer any damp fabric clinging to you.

You sigh and decide to just give them to him. 

 

You walk back to the bathroom and knock on the door lightly. 

 

“Come in.” 

 

You open the door only slightly, enough for you to hold the clothes through the gap, “I found some stuff you can wear whilst your clothes are being washed.”

 

You feel them being taken from your hand gently.

 

You hear a soft, “Thank you.” 

 

“I’m sorry about the bottoms, they’re all I could find that might fit you,” You nervously await a response. 

 

“They’re…” He struggles to find the right word, “Adequate.” 

 

You cover your mouth with your hand to hold in a laugh at the tone of distaste. 

 

“Can you pass back your other clothes?” You hear shuffling, the sound of fabric being bundled together and then his hand is poking out of the gap, his dirt covered clothes in his grasp. You take them from him, “Thanks,” and head downstairs. 

 

On your way to the laundry room you find your gran now seated at the table in a daze. 

 

“Gran?” You place a hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Is he still here?” Her voice trancelike.  

 

“He’s just had a bath,” You stroke her hair. 

 

She laughs, “Oh praise Satan, he’s still here,” She looks up at you, “He has finally arisen,” A grin on her face. 

 

You smile back at her tightly, “I’m going to bed,” You walk to the laundry room, throwing Michael’s clothes in there to be washed in the morning. Your gran watches as you walk back into the room, her eyes analysing you. 

 

“I’ll sort out the guest room for Michael,” You tell her as you walk by to go back upstairs. 

 

What she says next makes you stop, “He likes you.”

 

You look towards her and she’s smiling, a twinkle in her eyes, “My granddaughter and the Antichrist.”

 

You feel your cheeks heat up, and you shake your head, “It’s not like that.” 

 

Your grandmother looks at you in amusement, “Oh, but it will be.”

 

You walk out, “Goodnight, gran,” No longer wanting to continue the conversation. 

 

“Sleep well.”

* * *

As you approach your bedroom you see the light from your lamp is now on, casting a soft glow over the boy sitting on the edge of your bed, his hair damp, and face clean shaven. The shirt is a tad too short, but the bottoms fit him comfortably. 

 

He’s… _adorable._

. 

 

“Comfy?” You smile, walking over to him.

 

He looks down at his hello kitty clad legs with distaste, picking at the fabric, “Unfortunately, yes.”

 

You giggle, and he looks up at you eyes wide. A small smile gracing his lips. 

 

You can’t help but to return it. Silently you look at each other, your eyes exploring one another, it feels like he’s mentally undressing you to your bones. 

 

You’re the first to look away.

 

“We should dry that hair of yours,” Trying to break the tension, you retrieve your hairdryer, plugging it in next to the bed. He watches you intrigued. 

 

You turn it on and stand beside him, beginning to dry his hair,  fingers running through his damp strands. He leans into your touch, following the movements of your hand. 

 

As his hair becomes dryer, and softer, you find yourself mindlessly stroking and admiring the gold locks that crown his head.  

 

He slowly leans onto your stomach, forehead pressing into your hip, and you can feel his breathing brush across the thigh of one of your legs. 

 

You turn the hairdryer off and drop it onto the bed. 

 

You smooth his curls, tucking a strand behind his ear, touching his scar once again. You feel him shiver. 

 

A gentle caress flutters across the side of your thigh, the skin twitching beneath the touch. You look down to find Michael brushing your leg with his fingertips. 

 

“That tickles,” Breath hitching. 

He pulls himself back from you, avoiding your gaze, “Sorry.”

 

You unplug the hairdryer, putting it away, “It’s okay,” You pause biting the inside of your lip, “It felt nice.” 

 

“Really?” He replies abruptly. 

 

You turn to look at him, he averts his gaze away from you.

 

“Yeah,” You shrug, “Soft touches feel nice sometimes.”

 

He looks back at you, tilting his head to the side. 

 

“Anyway,” You sigh deeply, “Bed time. You’re tired, right?”

 

Michael nods, rubbing one of his eyes with the back of his hand, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. 

 

“You can sleep in my bed tonight, it’s comfier than the guest room’s.”

 

His eyes widen, and he sits up straighter, “Are you sure?” 

 

You shrug nonchalantly, “Yeah, it’s fine.”

 

Neither of you say anything for a few beats, unsure if the conversation has come to an end. 

 

“Well… goodnight Michael,” You turn to leave. 

 

“Why are you being so kind to me?” His voice soft and deep, a gentle rumble reaching your ears. 

 

You peer back around the door to find him looking up at you, confusion written across his beautiful face, “Because, Michael, you deserve kindness.” 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up sweaty, hair sticking to your neck and face, was not what you were expecting the following morning. 

 

You sit up groggily, brushing your hair back off your skin, cringing at the feeling of the damp strands. 

 

You recall dreaming of flames flickering in the corner of your eyesight, a blurry figure with long gold hair creeping around your vision, and blood… _a lot_ of blood. You were sure at one point you were bathed in it, your body stained red, you could taste the sweet metallic with just a swipe of the tongue on your lips. 

 

It was _mouthwatering_. 

 

The sound of a door closing breaks you out of your trancelike state. 

 

You take a deep breath and shove the covers off your sweaty body, removing yourself from the bed. 

 

As you walk downstairs you can hear the clacking of metal and soft voices murmuring. Moving closer to the sounds, you inhale deeply, _pancakes_ , sighing dreamily at the scent. 

 

The sight before you is one you were expecting; your gran cooking at the stove, a pancake sizzling in the pan, whilst Michael is seated at the breakfast bar, diving into a high pile of pancakes practically floating in maple syrup with a knife and fork. You grab a red apple from the fruit bowl as you walk further into the room. 

 

“Sleep well?” Your gran asks you, not even looking up from the pan. 

 

You shrug, “Could’ve been better,” washing the apple under the tap. 

 

Michael hums in agreement, taking a huge chomp of his meal. You smile in amusement at his sleep tousled hair, the satisfaction on his face as he eats. 

 

You pull a knife from the drawer and begin cutting the apple up into slices.  

 

“Do you want any pancakes?”

 

You turn to look at your gran and answer-

 

-the knife slips. 

 

You gasp feeling a sharp sting in your other hand and look down to see blood dripping down one of your fingers and onto the apple. You drop the knife quickly. 

 

Your gran stops what she’s doing and looks down at your hand, reaching out tentatively, “Are you okay?”

 

You smile tightly at her, “Just nicked myself. I must still be half asleep.” 

 

You watch as the blood trickles down your hand, the deep red coating your skin, mesmerising you. You feel the urge to lick it off, but quickly you shake yourself out of it, grossed out with that sudden instinct within. You walk over to the sink to wash it away when a hand grabs your wrist as you’re about to place it under the running water. 

 

Michael stands before you, staring down at your bloody hand, “Allow me.”

 

You look up at him in confusion, and then back to where he was seated. You didn’t even hear him get up. 

 

Slowly he brings your hand up to his mouth. You watch intrigued and unsure, and then his lips are wrapped around your bloody finger. His mouth warm and wet around your digit. 

 

A heat rises to your cheeks.

 

You look up and he’s staring at you, analysing your reaction. His tongue swiping the cut, leaving a tingling sensation in its place. 

 

You let out a deep breathy sigh. 

 

He gently removes your finger from his mouth, giving the tip one last flick of the tongue before it’s gone completely. 

 

You look down at it to find the cut is gone…healed, as if it were never there to begin with. 

 

You’re lost for words, analysing your finger to find some semblance of a wound, finally you’re able to speak, “How?”

 

He raises an eyebrow at you, and then looks at your gran. Your face heats up even more realising she witnessed the whole thing. 

 

“Hail Satan,” Your gran grins, taking a seat with her coffee in her hands. 

 

You look back to Michael, into the blues of his eyes, “Thank you,” 

 

He rewards you with a wide smile and a shrug, “It’s nothing.” 

 

You shake your head in disagreement, and wash the remaining blood off your hands into the sink. You look back to Michael to see his gaze on the blood covered apple on the counter. 

 

“I’ll throw that in the bin,” You tell him, drying your hands on a tea towel.

 

Michael shakes his head, “It’s fine,” and calmly picks up a slice soaked in the droplets of your blood… and eats it as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

 

Your eyes widen, and you feel your jaw drop in shock, your heart racing at the sight. You feel a throbbing sensation suddenly pulse between your legs and you quickly look away from him. 

You look to your gran to find her sipping her coffee, a smirk on her face. 

 

* * *

 

“Your clothes are washed by the way,” You walk into the living room with the freshly dried clothes in your arms, neatly folded. 

 

Michael sits on the sofa, legs crossed, a cup of cocoa in his hands as he watches _The Omen_. He’s sitting forward, eyes captivated, soaking it all in. 

 

You clear your throat, and he quickly turns his head to you, “Sorry,” He sips on his drink. 

 

You hold back a laugh, “It’s okay,” Placing the clothes on a chair in the room. You decide to join him and watch the film. You seat yourself at the other end of the sofa, legs curled underneath you, resting your head in your hand on the armrest. 

 

You sit in a daze for the majority of the film, not really paying attention, thinking about everything that has happened in the past 24 hours. Before you know it, the credits begin to roll and you turn to see Michael has fallen asleep, the empty cup still in his hands. His breathing is soft and relaxed, his hair falling across his face in gentle waves. He’s angelic, curled in on himself, head tucked into one of the pillows. 

 

Carefully you shuffle over and reach to grab the mug out of his hand. You gently pry his fingertips off and successfully remove it from his grasp. You begin pulling away when he sits up suddenly, face thunderous, his hand snatching out to clutch onto the arm that’s holding the mug. 

 

You hiss in pain, yet he doesn’t let go. You feel anger rising in you but you look closer to find his eyes glazed over and unfocused. You realise he’s still half asleep, not fully awake yet, “It’s okay Michael,” You whisper, and his grip loosens, “Hey, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” You hush, your other hand stroking the skin of the arm that keeps you in place. 

His eyes suddenly flicker with recognition, and he jerks away from you, huddling into the sofa. You see tears beginning to run down his cheeks in shock with himself, and you reach out swiping them away, “It’s okay darling,” Your voice soft and cooing. 

 

He looks up at you and shakes his head, “No, it’s not.” 

 

“You thought I was someone else, right?” You grab his face, forcing him to look up at you, “You thought I was going to hurt you?”

 

He bites his lip and nods into your hands, more tears falling from his eyes. They’re beginning to redden now.

 

“You didn’t hurt me intentionally,” You tell him, “I know you didn’t mean to.” 

 

He sniffles. 

 

“That’s enough crying now,” You wipe the remaining tears off his face, and you smile, pushing his hair back off his face, “Much better, very handsome,” Your tone light and teasing.

 

He lets out a choked laugh. 

 

“There we go,” You stroke his cheek, “Now, I was thinking, do you wanna bake some cookies with me?” 

 

He looks up at you, nodding enthusiastically. 

 

You grab his hand and pull him up, “Let’s go then,” directing him into the kitchen. You feel his thumb rub the back of your hand as you walk, and you relax into his touch. Reluctantly you have let go once you get to the kitchen.  You open a drawer and pull out a ratty leather book, covered in various stains. It’s something that’s been passed along in your family, various recipes for both meals, and baking. It’s one of your most cherished items. 

 

Michael tilts his head to the side at the sight of it. You turn to the most recently bookmarked page, placing it upon the countertop. Michael watches as you begin gathering all the ingredients you need, glancing to him every now and then, sharing a smile over the silence. 

 

“Okay,” Placing a large glass bowl on the counter with a clunk, “Let’s get started,” Hands on your waist. 

 

You begin measuring the ingredients, inviting Michael over to watch you, “So we need one and a half cups of flour, can you do that for me and sieve it into the bowl.” You watch as he carefully scoops the flour from the bag, shaking it until level and then he just… chucks it into the sieve, a cloud of flour blowing up in your face. 

 

You accidentally breathe some in and begin coughing, wiping the powder away from your eyes. You hear laughter, and turn back to see Michael covering his mouth with his hand, trying to hold himself together, his body shaking. 

 

You wipe more flour off your face, “Oh you think that’s funny?” You dip your finger into a stick of butter and reach up to swipe it across his face. You manage to get some on his cheek before he pulls away. He looks at you aghast, then he turns with determination in his eyes. You watch as he grabs a handful of flour and throws it at you. You manage to turn just in time for it to hit the back of your head. 

 

You giggle, “You’re so dead,” grabbing an egg and launching it at him. 

 

He disappears in thin air, leaving you staring wide eyed in the space he was once standing. 

 

Then someone wraps their arms around you. 

 

You hear Michael chuckle into your ear and you squeal as his hands tickle your sides. 

 

“That’s cheating!” You gasp through your laughter, throwing your head back into his chest. 

 

He hums in consideration, pausing his movements, “I don’t think it is,” He murmurs, lips brushing the skin of your ear. You shiver at the sensation, leaning further back into him. You feel him breathe deeply. 

 

“What is going on in there?” You hear your gran’s voice shouting from another room before she enters the kitchen, “I could hear screaming.”

 

You quickly disentangle yourself from Michael, rubbing you neck with your hand, “Nothing, we just dropped some stuff by accident,” You grab a bit of kitchen roll and quickly walk over to where the egg landed, leaning down to wipe it up. 

 

Your gran looks at you unconvinced, an eyebrow raised, “Tidy this up,” She orders, “And Michael,” She looks to him, “Will you allow me to introduce you to our congregation tomorrow night?”

 

You look between them, Michael bites his lip in consideration, then shrugs, “Sure, why not?” 

 

Madelyn grins, then looks between you both, “Play nicely,” She teases, leaving the room. 

 

“Let’s finish these,” Breaking the silence and grabbing the whisk, focusing at the task at hand. Michael walks over and stands close to you, watching as you finish putting together the cookie batter. Your body is on high alert, listening to his every movement, his every breath. 

 

You pick up the bowl and turn, creating space between the two of you. You hold it out to him in encouragement. He looks at the mixture unsure so you reach into the bowl and swipe up some of the batter with your fingers, placing it into your mouth. You moan quietly in pleasure at the taste, licking your fingers clean. You look up to see his eyes focusing on your lips, a red tinge decorating his cheeks. 

 

“You try,” Looking down to the bowl and then back to him. 

 

He tentatively scoops up a small amount of batter, his tongue licking a little bit off at first and then he suddenly shoves the rest into his mouth, humming in delight. You snort at his sudden change in demeanour. 

 

He reaches out for more but you turn the bowl away from him. He looks at you and pouts.

 

You hold in a laugh and give in to him, “One more, then we need the rest for the cookies.” 

 

He takes a large scoop this time. 

 

“ _Dude_.” 

 

He shrugs, lips smiling around his fingers as he sucks the rest of the batter off. 

 

You roll your eyes and begin placing lumps of batter onto the baking tray with a spoon. Michael soon joins you once he’s finished licking his hand clean. He stands close, your arms brushing against each other with each movement, sending tingles through your skin.  

 

You place the tray into the oven, setting the timer and then turn to him. His arms are behind his back, standing straight, looking between you and the oven.

 

“What?” A small smile on your face. 

 

“How long do we have to wait?” He looks into the oven, eagerness obvious by his wide eyed stare. 

 

You shrug, “Not long, maybe 10 minutes? We can just chat whilst we wait,” Pushing yourself up onto the counter, legs dangling, you pat your knees, trying to think of what to say, looking at the floor.

 

“Why do you feel sorry for me?” His voice calm and curious. 

 

That makes you look up, eyes wide and Michael just tilts his head at you awaiting an answer. 

 

“I don’t-” You begin but he interrupts you. 

 

“Don’t lie to me,” Voice deep with a growl. He moves closer to you, “You said last night that you would talk about this later. It’s now later. And I want to know.”

 

His hip is next to your knee now, and he seems to lean in closer to you with every word that comes out of his mouth. 

 

“It’s unfair,” You whisper, turning away from him. You hear him sigh and then he’s turning you back to him with his fingertips under your chin. 

 

“Tell me,” He breathes, you lick your lips, his gaze faltering for a moment. 

 

“It’s something you never asked for,” You pause, trying to find the right words, “Everyone has these expectations, but is this something you want?” 

 

He breathes deeply, you feel him place his hands onto your knees, gently prying them apart. You let him, watching him carefully. His fingertips trail up to your thighs as he stands between them, his face leaning down until his nose rubs against your own. You think you may have angered him. He doesn’t speak, only breathes, he tilts his head, mouth hovering over yours. His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but then a high pitched ringing of the timer buzzes through the room, making you jump and bang the back of your head onto the cupboard. 

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” You hiss, as your eyes tear up, and try to rub away the pain with your hand. 

 

“Are you okay?” Michael’s hand brushes your cheek, catching a tear, “Let me see.” 

You turn for him to look, and he strokes your hair gently, briefly touching the tender area of your scalp, “You’re okay, it’s just a little bump,” his voice close to your ear. You feel him press his lips to the back of your head in a delicate kiss, and you blush at the gentle intimacy. 

 

“What was that for?” You can barely hear yourself speak. 

 

You turn to look at him and he seems shocked at himself too, “It was something my,” He hesitates, “Grandmother used to do when I hurt myself,” His cheeks redden, “It always felt better after,” Avoiding your gaze. 

 

“Thank you,” Smiling, you wipe the remaining dampness from your eyes, “It feels better now.”

 

He smiles softly in return, eyes lighting up at you.  

 

“Guess the cookies are ready,” You jump off the side, grabbing the oven mitts.


	6. Chapter 6

You learn that day that Michael’s stomach is a bottomless pit, practically devouring all the cookies you had baked together and more; the rest of the day spent with you both snacking and watching movies.

Your gran pops in from time to time to check up on you both, giving you a look of disappointment when she finds you still at opposite ends of the sofa, the snacks in a pile between you. 

You just continue chewing on the popcorn, passing the bowl over to Michael who takes it eagerly, ignoring your gran. Kylo Ren’s voice fills the silence of the room, ‘Join me, please,’ Michael’s eyes widen as he leans forward, thoroughly enthralled, chewing mindlessly. 

 

* * *

 

Dinner that night can only be described as… _awkward._

Your gran sits there, talking through tomorrow’s plans; taking Michael clothes shopping, sorting him out for the congregation and what to expect with his introduction. 

“-you will most likely perform a black mass,” she explains, and you lose appetite immediately at its mention. 

“Why?” you blurt out, receiving a sharp look from your gran. 

“To prove himself,” she replies simply.

You scoff, picking at your food, “Can’t he do something else?” 

Michael chews on his food slowly, looking between you both, unsure what to say. 

“A black mass is a sacred tradition-”

‘It’s unnecessary!” you hiss, throwing your fork onto your plate with a loud clash, “Michael is not selling his soul, so what is the point?” 

Your gran’s jaw clenches, eyes fiery, “I will not have this disrespect in my household, and especially not in front of our guest,” she seethes. 

You look to Michael, and he avoids your gaze looking down at his food, picking at it with his fork. 

You turn back to your gran and stand, shoving your plate away and coldly state, “I’m going out.”

You storm to your room, almost slipping on the wooden floor, and open your wardrobe grabbing your slinkiest dress and begin undressing. 

_Fuck this_ , you think, ripping the shirt off your head and throwing it to the floor. You take a deep breath, trying to quell your anger but your body is practically shaking with it. Michael didn’t even stand up for you and you try not to cry, wiping at your face quickly once you feel the choking in your throat. 

With your dress on, you sit at your vanity, applying makeup viciously and quickly with barely any precision. 

You end up with a half decent smokey eyeshadow, finishing it up with some mascara when you hear someone shuffle into the room. 

“Where are you going?” Michael’s voice soft and gentle. 

You pause your movements, ‘Out,” not even bothering to look at him. You continue to preen yourself, applying your lipstick until you’re satisfied. 

He sighs, obviously not happy with your one worded reply. 

You place the tube back to the desk with a clunk, and turn to him, “I’m going to a club and getting drunk.”

He only stares at you, eyes running over every detail of your face. 

“ _What_?” raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he replies a little too quickly, looking away from you. 

You start messing with your hair, undecided on how to style it, Michael sits on the bed, his puppy dog face looking at you in the reflection of the mirror. 

You give in to him, “If you’re coming get dressed.” 

Arranging your hair in the mirror you see Michael jump up and undress almost frantically, as if you’ll take back your offer at any moment. 

You look away from his naked form, trying to focus on a strand of hair that just _won’t curl._ You turn up the heat on the tongs, and wait, glancing at the mirror again and Michael has his back to you. 

His smooth, unblemished back, with muscles rippling underneath the flesh with every movement. 

A dreamy sigh emits from your mouth, and his head swivels suddenly to you. 

You look down quickly, trying to pretend you weren’t just _ogling_ him, hands hovering over the desk unsure what to do next and instinctively you grab the tongs, wrapping that strand around it. 

You keep your gaze locked down to the table, releasing the curl once it’s hot enough and finally it holds some sort of shape. 

Michael clears his throat and you place the tongs down, looking towards him. He stands in his dark clothes from yesterday, now clean and ironed; he looks well put together, and ready for a night out. 

“You clean up well,” looking him up and down as you stand, and he smiles bashfully, running a hand through his hair. 

You step by him, brushing your arm against his, and reach down to put on your heels. Now standing taller you actually reach his shoulders. With the heels giving you confidence you grab his hand, “Lets go,” and you lead him along, grabbing your purse as you exit the room. 

The heels click as you make your way downstairs, Michael’s soft steps closely following behind you, his hand still holding onto yours. 

Once you reach the front door you let him go to put his shoes on, and you watch; he has an intense concentration on his face, tongue sticking out to the side, as he slowly ties the laces. 

It’s sickeningly charming, and makes you smile, quelling any remaining anger you felt for him. 

He stands ready to go, and you shout, “Don’t wait up,” to your gran somewhere in the house, alerting her of your departure. 

Michael opens the door, gesturing for you to go through first, “Such a gentleman,” a smirk on your mouth, and he snorts softly. 

 

* * *

 

You wished you had your phone out ready to record Michael’s reaction as you enter the club. The music is pounding away, people grinding up on each other, the smell of alcohol and sweat permeating through the air. 

And Michael…well he doesn’t seem to know what to make of it. 

He seems to just stop the moment you both enter the room and perhaps it’s a massive assault on his senses and he’s trying to take it all in. You walk around to look at his face and his eyes are like dinner plates, flitting to every area of the room. 

Gently you take his hand, “Come on,” and lead him to the bar, taking a seat. He sits upright, robotically straight, on high alert. 

You hope the alcohol will take the edge off for him… _if he can even be affected by alcohol,_ you muse. 

The barkeeper walks over to you when you finally catch his eye, “Vodka martini, and a margarita, please?” your voice sugary sweet. 

Michael gives you _a look,_ and you smile back innocently. 

You quickly pay, and receive the drinks, sliding the margarita over to Michael. He eyes it up and down in trepidation, before finally he picks it up and takes a tentative sip…and continues drinking until he downs it all in one go. 

You can only watch, your own drink still in your hand untouched, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“What?” he licks his lips, “That was nice.” 

You snort and shake your head, “Maybe you should just have shots,” and you sip your drink, enjoying the warm burn down the back of your throat. 

“Can you even get drunk?” 

He shrugs, “Guess we’ll just have to find out.”

You laugh, raising you hand to the barman, “Shots please, _a lot_ of shots.” 

 

* * *

 

You’re on your third cocktail, bopping your head along to the music; you’re not sure how many shots Michael is on but it’s definitely reached double digits. That you’re sure of. 

He throws back another, slamming it onto the bar,  and he looks at you, a grin plastered on his face, “I think I’m feeling… _something_ now.”

You laugh, enjoying the pleasant buzz you’ve got going, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he replies seriously with a nod. 

A drink is placed in front of you and you look up at the bartender in confusion, “I didn’t order this…I think? “ you point to the drink. 

The bartender replies, “It was sent over from that gentleman over there,” and he points to a man sitting at the other end of the bar, a brunette who waves at you, a cocky smile on his face. 

You’re debating whether to send it back, but also…free drink? You shrug and pick it up, when it’s suddenly snatched out of your grasp. You turn to find Michael chugging the drink back, maintaining eye contact with the man across the bar, a challenging stare. Once finished, he slams the glass onto the bar, wiping his mouth and turns back to you. 

“That was my free drink,” you grumble, a pout on your face. 

He shrugs, “Should’ve drank it quicker.” 

“You should buy me one to replace it,” eyes wide and pleading, adding a little eyelash flutter. 

“I’m broke,” unaffected by your act. 

“You’re making me broke,” you place your elbow on the bar, chin resting in your hand. 

You feel him lean on you, head resting on your shoulder “I’m so~ _rry,_ ” he sing songs. 

You snort softly, and pat his head, cooing, “It’s okay, your prettiness makes you worth it.” 

He hums in pleasure, leaning into your touch, “You’re the prettiest,” his voice slightly slurs. 

“We’re _both_ the prettiest,” you reply seriously, and he nods in agreement. 

“We’re the prettiest,” he murmurs into your shoulder. 

You rest your head on his silky locks and hum in agreement…and then a song you love starts playing. 

You sit up suddenly, jumping out of your chair, grabbing Michael’s hand, “Come on, let’s dance.”


	7. Chapter 7

You’re quick to shimmy your hips, swinging your hair to the beat enjoying the music as the rhythm flows through you. Michael however…well he’s, to put it kindly, not the most enthusiastic. His movements are jolty and awkward, his head bopping to the song somewhat in time. You finally take some pity on him, reaching out and pulling him into your body. 

He looks down at you wide eyed and unsure, and you grab his hands, placing them on the dip of your spine, swaying your hips. You lean up on your tip toes, your hand on his shoulder to keep you balanced, mouth pressing to his ear, “Don’t think. Just listen and feel,” pulling your face away with a smile. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and grin as you feel him relax and loosen, following your lead, allowing himself to enjoy the music. 

It’s the first time in a long time you’ve felt free. 

As his confidence grows, he grabs your hand and spins you around making you giggle and grin, stumbling into his chest as you lose balance. 

Your head rests against him and you can feel the vibrations of his laughter. Your bodies slow down, simply swaying side to side as the people dance wildly around you. It all becomes a haze of noise, your arms wrapping around each other.

You pull your head back to look up at him, and he looks down at you with hooded eyes, glancing down to your lips. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he leans in closer, and you realise his intention. 

His eyes closing, soft lips ready to touch yours. He looks absolutely delectable. Your cheeks flush, and you want this, you do, so

_fucking_

badly…but it isn’t right. Not right now. 

It physically hurts for you to cover his mouth with the palm of your hand, pausing his movement, his lips pressing against your skin. The rejection in his eyes almost has you want to take it back immediately. 

He begins to pull away, maybe even turn to run from you, but you grip tightly onto his arm with your other hand, keeping him in place. You lean up, the palm of the hand that was on his mouth now cupping his cheek and you speak into the shell of his ear, “Not like this.” 

You feel his sigh of relief tickle your jaw, his body relaxing into you, and you give him a soft, gentle kiss on his cheek. You feel his skin heat up under your lips, and the temptation to turn his head and place your mouth on his is great, but you relent.  

You pull back quickly, looking up at him with a smile that promises another time. 

He looks to you in a daze, and you hold onto his hand, “Let’s get some water,” following you as you lead him through the dance floor. 

As you’re approaching the bar you feel another hand snatch at your wrist; tight and harsh. The owner quickly removes it with a screech and you turn to see a man looking down at his now red and blistered palm. 

Your eyes widen at the sight, mouth trying to open to find words. 

“You bitch,” he shouts, taking a step towards you, and you step back, fear coursing through your veins. 

Michael steps in front of you, blocking him, “You shouldn’t grab people,” he snarls, “It’s rude.” 

You grab onto his arm, “Michael, don’t,” trying to pull him away from the situation, and he looks to you. A silent conversation; your pleading eyes looking up at him, and his heated gaze weakening. 

He sighs in defeat and turns to follow you. 

You watch as Michael’s head suddenly snaps to the side, the man’s fist colliding with his cheek. It makes him falter for a moment, his hand touching his cheek, looking to the man in shock. 

Almost instantly the instinct to protect and avenge Michael kicks in, rage coursing through you, and without thinking, you grab the man opposite by the collar, and punch him square in the nose. You hear the crunch of bone and watch as blood pours down his chin, the sight sickly satisfying, and you smile in pleasure. 

The man stumbles back, dazed by the impact, falling to the ground. 

Pain jolts through your knuckles, thrumming and sharp, and you look down to find it red, and maybe even bruising already. 

You turn to Michael and he’s watching you with wide eyes, a look of awe on his angelic face; a small bruise forming on his cheek. You hate that mark. 

Wordlessly, you grab his hand and weave in and out of the crowd, escaping the club before the police are called. 

The fresh air hits your sweaty skin, and you shiver, breathing deeply, but you don’t pause. You both keep walking until you’re a fair distance away from the club, hands locked tightly together. 

The streets become quieter and quieter, barely anyone around the further you walk, and finally you speak, “Was that you?”

He stops walking, making you also stop, turning his head towards you, and he seems to hesitate in his response, “No,” he pauses, “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” You snap unintentionally, and you take a deep breath, “Sorry, I’m just…”

“It’s okay,” he places a hand on your shoulder, rubbing his thumb against your bare skin, “Thank you.” 

You relax under his touch, looking up at him, “He hurt you,” you bite your lip, eyebrows furrowing as you recall the events, “I wanted to hurt him.” 

“And you did,” amusement in his voice, “Very much so.” 

You snort softly, looking down at your knuckles.  

“His hand,” you look up to Michael, “It was burnt.” 

He nods. 

“How?” 

He doesn’t seem to want to answer, avoiding your gaze, “Let’s talk about this another time,” grabbing your hand and continuing to walk. 

“Michael,” you pull on him to make him stop, “Tell me, please?” 

He looks to you, and then to the space behind, and he takes a deep breath, “Not here.” 

You turn around to see you’ve come to the outskirts of a field, a forest in the distance. 

* * *

Carefully you walk across the forest floor, twigs snapping and leaves crunching underneath the weight of your heels. Michael holds your hand, keeping you steady as he leads you through the trees, eventually coming to a small clearing. The moonlight illuminates the area, and you can vaguely make out the disturbed dirt on the ground. It looks as though something or someone had carved into it, though you can’t make out the shape. 

You both walk closer and you can see an outline of a circle, though the middle sections are lost to you. He leads you to the centre and you both stop. 

He turns to you and takes a deep breath, as if he’s preparing himself and finally he speaks, “I knew you weren’t completely normal from the start.”

You know your face morphs into one of confusion, and even slight offence at the phrasing of his words, “Excuse me?” you raise an eyebrow. 

He cups your cheek with his hand, making you focus on him entirely, “Please, let me finish,” and he pauses, mouth open partially, trying to find the right words, “The energy that surrounds you is one I’ve encountered before.” 

You nod for him to continue, still unsure of where he’s going with this. 

“There’s magic flowing through you,” he licks his lips, “Strong, powerful magic, but it’s untrained.” 

“What?” you whisper, and you recall a news segment from a while ago, a woman called Cordelia talking about witches and magic, “No, I can’t be a-” shaking your head and pulling away from him, but he doesn’t let you, his hands gripping your biceps, keeping you in place. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he leans closely to your face, stroking your arms, “I can help you.” 

You can feel your body trembling as panic seizes you, and you look down to your hands in fear, “Oh my god, I could’ve hurt you…or Gran,” you whimper. 

He smiles gently, “You haven’t, and you won’t. I can help you control it,” his fingertips trace down your biceps to your forearms, you can feel the goosebumps rising to his touch, eventually holding onto both of your hands, his thumb stroking the palms, “Let me help you, _please_?” An innocent tone to his voice that has you melting. 

“I’m scared,” you sniffle, tears welling up in your eyes. 

He brings you into his chest, enveloping you in his strong arms, and the heat form his body makes you shiver. You snuggle closer into him, enjoying the warmth, sniffling again as he comforts you. 

He strokes your hair, pressing his lips to the crown of your head and he murmurs, “You don’t need to be scared, I’m here.” 

You let out a shuddering sigh. 

* * *

Once you calm down slightly, you both return to the grassy field, hand in hand, “I don’t want to go home yet,” you murmur, looking up to the stars in the sky. 

“Where do you want to go?” his voice delicate, as if he’d give you anything you ask for right now. 

“Let’s stay here,” and you sit in the dew covered grass, pulling Michael down with you. 

You lay back, watching as the clouds float across, hiding the shimmering stars for a moment before they reappear again. 

You can feel Michael tracing the lines of your palm, bringing you back down to earth. 

“Why did you take me there?”

He doesn’t hesitate in his answer, “I was there for days before I met you.”

You turn to look at him, he’s still sitting up, his knees pressed to his chest, “Why?”

He lets out a sigh, and he lays down beside you, so close you can feel the curls of his hair brush your cheek, “I was trying to find answers, but my _father_ didn’t want to help me,” the hurt clear in his tone. 

You look back to the sky, “You’re better off without him…you’re _amazing,”_ You breathe, you can tell he’s turned his head to look at you, his warm breaths caressing your cheek now, “If he can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you.” 

It’s silent for a few moments and you sit up, shuffling onto your side and lay back down, laying your head on your arm. You’re now facing Michael, and in the moonlight you can see him looking straight at you as if you’re an angel from above. It takes your breath away.

He reaches out and strokes your cheek, “Thank you.”

“I’m just telling the truth,” you murmur, the bruise on his face catching your eye, and you reach out to trace it. He leans into your touch, sighing softly, eyes fluttering closed. 

“If I’m, what you say I am,” you lick your lips, considering your next words, “Can I heal you?”

He reopens his eyes, and softly he speaks, “You can try.”

You think about what you’ve read on witchcraft, how it’s mostly about intention, and you focus on his bruise. You imagine it disappearing from his beautiful face, and you can feel this energy rising within you. It feels like honey and silk, soft and divine. You don’t feel scared of it. You let it take you over, and you lean across to him, the hand that was on his cheek now pushing back into his hair, holding him in place.  

You place your mouth on the ugly mark gently, and you hear him inhale sharply beneath you. You close your eyes, completely focusing on the task at hand. 

You’re not sure how much time passes, but instinctively your body seems to know when the spell has been completed, and you suddenly collapse onto Michael, exhaustion taking over you. He holds you to him, your head resting against his chest; the feel of his heart beating soothing you. He’s stroking your hair, and as you succumb to the darkness you can vaguely hear praise spilling from his lips. 


	8. Chapter 8

A soft warm breeze caresses your skin, and you can hear the gentle chirping of birds in the distance, as you awaken slowly. The sun’s much too bright so you snuggle closer into Michael, closing your eyes tightly, relaxing into him. The sound of his heartbeat is soothing, and you almost feel yourself drifting back off, when the arm wrapped around you moves.  

You open your eyes, squinting against the sunlight, and you can feel his hand stroking your arm. 

You turn your head, looking up at him through your lashes, “Good morning,” you say softly. 

“Morning,” returning your gaze, his voice rumbling through his chest, the hand on your arm now drifting up to your face. You reach up and grab it, kissing his palm before placing it back on your cheek, holding it in place. 

He looks at you warmly, a small smile gracing his lips, and you feel completely at peace laying here in the grass with him, his gentle touches leaving butterflies flittering in the bottom of your stomach. 

You could stay here forever, but reality simmers in the back of your mind, reminding you that eventually it will end. 

“What’s the matter?” he murmurs, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. 

Licking your lips, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, you answer, “We have to go home soon.” 

He hums in acknowledgement, “I am getting hungry,” a twinkle in his eyes.

You snort, shaking your head against him, “You’re always hungry,” fiddling with the hem of his shirt. 

“That is true,” he looks to the clear sky. 

Sitting up with a slight groan, you take in your surroundings; there’s no one else around, the grass rustles with the breeze, illuminated by the sun above. You must’ve kicked your heels off in your sleep, feeling the soft green beneath the soles of your feet. 

You turn back to Michael to find him simply watching you, he looks _entranced_ , and you almost turn to look away from his intense stare, when you realise something. There’s no bruise on his cheek. 

“Holy shit,” you mutter, leaning over and grabbing his chin, turning his face side to side, looking for some sort of a mark. 

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Are you okay?”

“The bruise is gone,” eyes wide, hand trembling over where it once was. 

With a sigh he sits up, now completely face to face with you, those blue eyes making your breath hitch. You move to pull your hand away but he snatches it before you can, bringing it back to his cheek.

It feels like hours when you know for a fact it’s been mere seconds, his voice snapping you out of your trancelike state, “You healed me,” he looks down to your other hand, “and yourself by the looks of it.” 

You had forgotten about your own injury, glancing down to what should be a bruised hand, only to find it, as he had said, completely healed. 

You look back up at him, “I did that? And this?” your thumb stroking his face, and he smiles freely and warmly at you.

“Yes you did,” he states proudly, eyes flickering over every inch of your face, taking in your every emotion. 

With eyes wide, you lean in even closer, “I kissed you,” the memories of the previous night coming back slowly, “and now you’re healed.”

He hums in agreement, allowing you to look over his cheek closely, your nose practically touching it. You can feel his hot breath on your own face, soft and relaxed, hitching only slightly when your fingertips slide out of his grip and onto his neck. 

A sudden thought springs forward in your mind, and you pull yourself back, hand still latched on, a buzzing energy running through your veins, “Will you teach me more?” 

The fear had seemed to fade away, now that you were aware of what you were capable of; no longer just causing pain or harm, but a soft, gentle touch that could alleviate it. 

He furrows his eyebrows at you, “I said I would, didn’t I?” 

A little squeal emits from your lips, arms wrapping around Michael’s neck and he gasps, clearly not expecting you to launch yourself at him into a tight hug. 

Despite the surprise, he quickly wraps his arms around you, pulling you in tightly, chest to chest. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing you in. You close your eyes, enjoying the moment, the warmth, and comfort he brings.  

Softly you murmur, “We should head back, I think Gran will legit kill me if I don’t bring you home soon.”

He snorts softly, “Can’t have you being killed, can we?” 

“It would be a tragedy,” you nod, a smirk on your face, leaning back as he loosens his hold. 

You stand, stretching your body, trying to relieve your aching muscles. Michael does the same, running a hand through his ruffled curls, to the back of his neck,  massaging and stretching it out with a light groan. You pick up your heels and purse from the ground, opting to walk barefoot in the grass for the time being. 

It’s warming up now, and you can feel yourself beginning to sweat from the heat; the gentle breeze cools your skin just slightly. You turn to see if Michael’s ready and it seems he was waiting for you all along, hands behind his back, head tilted and watching you with a smile. 

You hold your free hand out, and his eyes light up, grabbing ahold of it eagerly. Silently you walk together, simply enjoying the other’s presence. It’s as if the moment he touches you everything is calm and soothing; there’s no worry in the world. The grass is warm and soft beneath your feet, and you try to savour it before you have to put your heels back on. 

You think back to last night; Michael defending you, and trying to protect you, only for his heavenly face to be punched. You can’t help but feel like it’s your fault. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” you murmur, pace slowing. 

He’s the one who grinds you both to a halt, “What do you mean?” His face is full of concern, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand, those blue eyes staring into you, undoubtedly trying to figure you out. 

“You got hurt,” looking down to your feet, unable to look him in the eyes, but then he’s cupping your chin, forcing you to look up at him. 

“Don’t think for one second I didn’t know what I was stepping into last night,” he practically growls, seemingly irritated by you, “If I wanted to I could’ve killed him before he even laid a hand on me.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, it’s the first time you’ve seen this _side_ of him, and it’s strangely thrilling. 

“But,” he sighs, “I didn’t want you to see that,” hand now stroking your cheek. 

You can’t help but shiver at his soft touch, and you nod, looking at his chest before glancing back up to him, a smirk making it’s way to your mouth, “Yeah, I’m sorry you had to see _me_ like that.” He lets out a little snort, shaking his head, trying to suppress a grin by biting his lip. 

“It was very impressive,” looking upon you proudly. 

You can’t help but blush and smile at the praise; you’re sure he must be able to feel the heat of your cheek on his palm. He drops his hand suddenly, and clears his throat, “We should keep walking,” pulling you along. 

It doesn’t take long for you both to reach the sidewalk, placing your heels on the ground. He holds onto your hand, keeping you balanced as you step into them; a true gentleman. 

Now you can only hear the clicking of them between the silence, your arms swinging together, hands connected. You’re simply enjoying each other’s presence. The rest of the walk home is like this, but as you can see your house in the distance, he speaks, “Will you be joining us, with the shopping?” His usually smooth voice slightly strained. 

You shrug, “I don’t think so,” looking up at him with a humorous twinkle in your eyes, “I think Gran wants you all to herself for a bit.” 

“How about later, at the church?” turning to you eagerly, almost puppyish, with a pout on his lips. 

“Of course,” stroking the back of his hand, “I wouldn’t miss your introduction.” 

He smiles softly, looking at you and then to the ground for a few beats, “And if I perform a black mass?” A soft murmur. 

“I don’t agree with it,” you pause, biting your lip, “but if it’s something you want to do, I can’t stop you.” 

“Will you hate me, if I do?” He looks back up at you then, the distress clear, despite his attempts to hide it. 

You exhale gently, looking to your entwined hands, “I won’t hate you,” tightening your hold on him, “but I will be upset.”

“Okay,” he sighs, accepting your answer.  

* * *

Your Gran definitely wasn’t happy with you taking Michael on a night on the town, standing on the other side of the door, clearly waiting and watching for your return. 

You had quickly apologised, feeling like a petulant child, fighting the urge to roll your eyes at her fiery stare. 

“(Y/N) looked after me very well, Madelyn,” Michael spoke, trying to calm the tense atmosphere. 

She glanced between you both, obviously trying to figure out what you could be hiding, but you wouldn’t let anything slip. Last night belonged to yourself and Michael; no one else. 

She’d quickly dragged him out of the house, barely a word to yourself, but you knew this is how she’d be. Eventually it’ll be as though nothing happened, and you’ll be back to laughing and joking around the dinner table. 

Michael had given you one last look, and you waved him goodbye, a sympathetic smile on your face. His own hand raising in response. 

They’ve been gone for over an hour now, you think anyway, and you’re snuggling into your bed, inhaling _**his**_ scent, trying to fight the urge to hump a pillow. He’s so innocent, yet sensual at the same time, with his smooth, honey voice, and gentle touches. He’d riled up something animalistic within you; thighs clenching together, trying to soothe the ache between them. 

With a groan you turn over onto your front, stuffing your face into the pillow, sighing in frustration. You need a nap after last night, but this… _problem_ , just won’t let you drift off. 

Slowly you slide your arm under and down your body, cupping the space between your thighs. 

Your panties are soaked. 

You can’t help but whimper at the slight stimulation, grinding down into the palm of your hand; cheeks burning as you realise you’re really going to do this. 

With your fingertips you swirl over your cloth covered clit, your eyes rolling at the sensation, finally giving in to your desires. 

“Fuck,” you let out a harsh whisper, hips lazily thrusting against your touch, thoughts of those golden curls caressing your skin, hot lips sliding up your throat. 

Oh Satan, what kind of lover would Michael be? Soft and gentle, or aggressive and rough? You honestly didn’t care, just having his body pressing into yours would be enough for you. Feeling those hands caress and grab, your own tugging into his silk strands, holding him in place. His moans would be deep and rough, but if he whimpers? _Oh,_ that would be a blessing

Your hand slips underneath your panties, in need of skin to skin contact, and _fuck_ , you don’t think you’ve ever been this wet before. Fingertips tease at your entrance, sliding in only slightly before pulling back and spreading your slick across your cunt. 

A whimper slips from your lips, your breathing now deepening, chest heaving as you pick your speed up. The sinful noises of your squelching pussy fill the room, and that alone has you dripping. You feel so naughty and filthy, moans muffled by your pillow. 

You can picture it now, Michael stroking the skin of your cheek, his lips pressing into yours with such fire it’d have you shivering with need. A part of you hated yourself for rejecting his kiss last night, but he was tipsy, even drunk, and you couldn’t help but feel like it’d be taking advantage.

But if you had kissed him then, your heated bodies pressing together on the dance floor, hand sliding into his hair, pulling him into you. There’s no way you would’ve been able to wait til you were home, you’d have to drag him to the toilets, and lock yourselves in a stall. The music outside would be pulsing through the walls as you devour him, hands frantically working over each other, unzipping his trousers, palming his cock…he must be _big_. To hear his moans, feel him pulsing beneath your touch, making him see stars; that would be heaven to you. 

You’re so close now, your legs trembling, and you can feel rivulets of sweat trickling across your skin. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest, the pulsing of your cunt caused by thoughts of him only spurs you on, fucking yourself into your hand. 

You can’t decide if you’d want him on his knees, or yourself, fighting to please the other. Perhaps your hands would find themselves down each others underwear instead, working to get the other off; your hand stroking his swollen dick, and his fingering your pussy, both heavily breathing, sweaty foreheads pressed together. 

A blissful sensation creeps through the bottom of your stomach, and you know it’ll all be over soon. Your whimpers becoming louder, the throbbing of your clit intensifying, and even with the sudden cramp in your hand you don’t stop, fighting through the pain. A long groan rips from your throat, hips bucking wildly; waves of euphoric pleasure crash through, leaving you in a shaking heap. 

The hand between your legs slows down to a stop, the last remnants of your orgasm gently flowing across your spent body. It must’ve been exactly what you needed as in mere minutes you’re passing out in your bed, gone to the world. 

A soft voice echoes through your mind, calling your name, and you can feel a phantom hand on your arm. It takes a few moments to realise that you’re not dreaming, slowly opening your eyes to see Michael sitting on the bed beside you, a smile of amusement on his face. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Send fic requests or prompts to my Tumblr, babydollcake :)


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